"That you found me very downcast and shamefaced. That what I told you

can be summed up in three words. Must I say them again?"

"Then you really abandoned her first? I like that better for your sake!"

"Yes, I understand; it is ridiculous to be betrayed, it is glorious to

have taken the first step. That is the way I used to reason with you,

that was our code; but I have changed my ideas altogether concerning all

such matters since I have been in love. I betrayed her, I have been

deserted, I am in despair: therefore our former theories had no

common-sense. Find in the theory of life which we used to put in

practice together an argument which will relieve me of my regret and my

suffering, and I will say that you are right."

"I shall seek no arguments, my dear fellow; suffering is not to be

argued with. I pity you because you are unhappy; but I am wondering if

there is a woman in existence who deserves to be mourned so deeply, and

if Mademoiselle Jacques would not have done better to forgive an act of

infidelity, than to dismiss you in your present desperate state. For a

mother, she seems to me a trifle stern and vindictive!"

"That is because you don't know how guilty and absurd I have been. An

act of infidelity! she would have forgiven that, I am sure; but insults,

reproaches!--and worse than that, Vérac! I said something to her that

no self-respecting woman can ever forget: '_You bore me_!'"

"Yes, that is a rough thing to say, especially when it is true. But

suppose it was not true? suppose you simply said it in a moment of

anger?"

"No! it was mental weariness. I had ceased to love her. Stay, it was

worse than that: I was never able to love her when she was mine. Just

remember that, Vérac; laugh if you please, but remember that for your

own guidance. It is very possible that you will wake up some fine

morning, sated with sham pleasures and violently in love with a virtuous

woman. That may happen to you as it has happened to me, for I do not

think that you are any more dissipated than I used to be. Well, when you

have overcome that woman's resistance, probably the same thing will

happen to you as to me: having acquired the deplorable habit of making

love to women you despise, you will be doomed to fall back into those

cravings for a barbarous sort of liberty of which dignified love has a

horror. Thereupon, you will feel like a wild animal tamed by a child,

and always ready to devour him in order to break its chain. And some

day, when you have killed the helpless little keeper, you will fly all

alone, roaring with joy and shaking your mane; but then--then the wild

beasts of the desert will frighten you, and, because you have once

learned to know the cage, you will care no more for liberty. However

slight the bond, and however unwillingly your heart may have accepted

it, it will regret it as soon as it is broken, and it will have a horror

of solitude, yet be powerless to choose between love and libertinism.

That is a form of suffering which you do not yet know. God grant that

you may never know it! And meanwhile laugh and jeer as I used to do!

That will not prevent your day from coming if debauchery has not already

made a corpse of you!"

Monsieur de Vérac, smiling, allowed this torrent of words to flow,

listening to it as to a well-executed cavatina at the Théâtre-Italien.

Laurent was unquestionably sincere; but perhaps his auditor was

justified in not attaching too great weight to his despair.

IX

When Thérèse finally lost sight of the _Ferruccio_, it was quite dark.

She had dismissed the boat which she had hired in the morning at

Spezzia, and paid for in advance. When the boatman rowed her ashore from

the steamer, she had noticed that he was drunk; she was afraid to return

to Spezzia alone with him, and, expecting to find some other boat on the

shore, she had dismissed him.

But when she thought seriously about returning, she remembered that she

was absolutely destitute. Nothing could be simpler, of course, than to

go back to the _Maltese Cross_ at Spezzia, where she and Laurent had

passed the preceding night, to have the boatman paid at the office, and

to await Palmer's arrival there; but the idea of being entirely

destitute, and of being obliged to owe her breakfast the next day to

Palmer, caused a feeling of repugnance, puerile, perhaps, but

insurmountable, considering the existing relations between them.

Furthermore, she was more than a little disturbed as to the real

explanation of his conduct toward her. She had noticed the heart-rending

sadness of his glance when she left Florence. She could not refrain from

thinking that an obstacle to their marriage had suddenly arisen, and she

saw in the projected union so many real drawbacks for Palmer, that she

considered it her duty not to contend against the obstacle in whatever

quarter it might arise. Thérèse adopted an altogether instinctive

solution of the problem, which was to remain for the present at Porto

Venere. In the small bundle which she had brought with her to guard

against emergencies, she had enough clothes to pass four or five days

anywhere. In the way of jewels, she had a gold watch and chain; these

she could leave in pawn until she had received the pay for her work,

which should have reached Genoa in the form of a banker's draft. She had

directed Vicentino to call for her letters at Genoa and forward them to

Spezzia.

She must pass the night somewhere, and the appearance of Porto Venere

was not inviting. The tall houses along the narrow passage out to sea,

which reach to the water's edge, are so nearly on a level with the top

of the cliff in the rear, that in many places one must stoop in order to

pass under the overhanging roofs which reach nearly to the middle of the

street. That steep, narrow street, paved with rough cobble-stones, was

crowded with children, hens, and large copper vessels placed at the

angles formed by the roofs to catch the rain-water during the night.

These vessels are the barometer of the locality: fresh water is so

scarce there, that as soon as a cloud appears in the direction from

which the wind is blowing, the housewives hasten to place all

practicable receptacles in front of their doors, in order not to lose a

drop of the blessing sent by Heaven.

As she passed before those yawning doorways, Thérèse caught a glimpse

of one interior which seemed cleaner than the others and which exhaled a

somewhat less acrid odor of oil. In the doorway was a poor woman whose

pleasant and honest face inspired confidence; and the woman anticipated

her by speaking to her in Italian or something approaching it. Thus she

and Thérèse were able to understand each other. The goodwoman asked

her pleasantly if she were looking for any one. She went in, looked

about, and asked if she could hire a room for the night.

"Yes, to be sure, a better room than this, and you will be much quieter

than at the inn, where you would hear the sailors singing all night

long! But I am not an innkeeper, and if you don't want me to have

quarrels on my hands, you will say publicly in the street to-morrow that

you knew me before you came here."

"Very well," said Thérèse, "show me the room."

She was led up several steps and found herself in an enormous, miserable

room, which commanded a panorama of vast extent on the bay and on the

open sea; she took a liking to the room at first sight, for no special

reason, unless it was that it seemed to her a sort of refuge against new

bonds which she did not wish to be forced to accept. In that room she

wrote on the following day to her mother:

"MY DEAREST LOVE:

"For twelve hours I have been at peace and in full possession of my free

will for--I know not how many days or years. Everything is unsettled

again in my mind, and you shall form your own opinion of the situation

of affairs.

"That fatal love which alarmed you so is not renewed and never will be.

You may set your mind at rest on that point. I came here with my

patient, and put him aboard ship last night. If I have not saved his

poor heart, and I hardly dare flatter myself that I have, I have made it

better at all events, and through me it has enjoyed the sweet pleasure

of friendship for a few moments. If I could have believed him, he was

cured forever of his tempestuous outbreaks; but I could see plainly

enough, from his contradictions and his relapses with respect to me,

that the foundation of his nature is still unchanged, and the something

still exists that I cannot define otherwise than as the love of that

which is not.

"Alas! yes, that child would like to have for his mistress some one like

the Venus de Milo, enlivened with the breath of my patron Sainte

Thérèse, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the same

woman should be Sappho to-day and Jeanne d'Arc to-morrow. It is most

unfortunate for me that I ever believed that, after adorning me in his

imagination with all the attributes of the Divinity, he would not open

his eyes the next day! It must be that, without suspecting it, I am very

vain, to have accepted the task of inspiring a cult! But, no, I was not,

I give you my word! I did not think of myself; on the day when I allowed

myself to be placed on that altar, I said to him: 'Since you absolutely

insist upon adoring me instead of loving me, which I should much prefer,

why, adore me, reserving the right to crush me to-morrow!'

"And he has crushed me! But of what can I complain? I anticipated it,

and resigned myself to it beforehand.

"But I was weak, undignified, and wretched when that horrible moment

came. My courage returned, however, and God permitted me to recover more

quickly than I hoped.

"Now, I must speak to you of Palmer. You wish me to marry him, he wishes

it, and I, too, did wish it! Do I wish it still? What shall I say, my

beloved? I still am tortured by scruples and fears. Perhaps it is his

fault. He could not or would not pass with me the last moments that I

passed with Laurent; he left me alone with him three days, three days

which I knew would be, and which actually were, without danger for me;

but did he, Palmer, know it, and could he be sure of it? or--which would

be much worse--did he say to himself that he must find out how far he

could depend on me? There was on his part either a display of romantic

unselfishness or an exaggerated discretion, which, in such a man, can

come only from some worthy sentiment, but which has given me food for

reflection none the less.

"I have written you what took place between us; it seemed to me that he

had taken it upon himself as a sacred duty to rehabilitate me by

marriage, after the affronts to which I had been subjected. I felt the

enthusiasm of gratitude and the emotion that follows profound

admiration. I said yes, I promised to be his wife, and to-day I feel

that I love him as much as it is in my power to love.

"And yet to-day I hesitate, because it seems to me that he repents. Am I

dreaming? I have no idea; but why could he not come here with me? When I

learned of my poor Laurent's terrible illness, he did not wait for me to

say: 'I am going to Florence;' but he said to me: 'Let us go!'--The

twenty nights that I passed at Laurent's bedside, he passed in the next

room, and he never said to me: 'You are killing yourself!' but simply:

'Take a little rest, so that you can go on with it.'--I have never

detected the shadow of jealousy in him. It seemed that in his eyes I

could never do too much to save the ungrateful boy whom we had both of

us adopted, as it were. He knew, noble heart, that his confidence and

generosity increased my love for him, and I was infinitely grateful to

him for understanding it. In that way he raised me in my own eyes, and

made me proud to belong to him.

"Very well; then why this whim or this obstacle at the last moment? An

unforeseen obstacle? With the strong will that I know him to possess, I

hardly believe in obstacles; it seems more probable that he wished to

test me. That humiliates me, I confess. Alas! I have become horribly

sensitive since I fell! Is it not natural? why did not he, who

understands everything, understand that?

"Or, perhaps he has thought better of it, and has said to himself all

that I said to him, from principle, in order to prevent his thinking of

me; what would there be surprising in that? I had always known Palmer as

a prudent and sensible man. When I discovered in him stores of

enthusiasm and trust, I was greatly surprised. Might he not be one of

those who take fire when they see others suffer, and who fall to loving

the victims passionately? That is a natural instinct in those who are

strong, it is the sublime pity of pure and happy hearts! There were

moments when I said that to myself, in order to reconcile me with

myself,--when I loved Laurent, for it was his suffering, before and

above all else, that attached me to him!

"All this that I am saying to you, my dearest love, I should not dare to

say to Richard Palmer if he were here. I should be afraid that my doubts

would cause him horrible pain, and I am sorely embarrassed, for I have

these doubts in spite of myself, and I am afraid, for to-morrow at all

events, if not for to-day. Will he not cover himself with ridicule by

marrying a woman whom he has loved, he says, for ten years, to whom he

has never lisped a word of anything of the sort, and whom he decides to

attack on the day that he finds her crushed and bleeding under the feet

of another man?

"I am sojourning in a horrible yet magnificent little seaport, where I

passively await the command of my destiny. Perhaps Palmer is at Spezzia,

three leagues away. That was where we had arranged to meet. And I, like

a sulking, or rather like a timid, child, cannot make up my mind to go

to him and say: 'Here I am!'--No, no! if he suspects me, no further

relations between us are possible! I forgave the other five or six

insults a day. With this one I could not overlook the shadow of a

suspicion. Is this unjust? No! henceforth I must have a sublime love or

nothing! Did I seek his love? He forced it upon me, saying: 'It will be

heaven!'--The other had told me that perhaps what he brought me would be

hell. He did not deceive me. Nor must Palmer deceive me, while deceiving

himself; for, after this new error, nothing would be left for me but to

deny everything, to say to myself that, like Laurent, I have forfeited

forever, by my own fault, the right to believe; and I do not know

whether, with that certainty, I could endure life!

"Forgive me, my beloved; my perplexities distress you, I am sure,

although you would say that I must spare you none of them! At all

events, have no anxiety concerning my health; I am exceedingly well, I

have the loveliest bit of ocean before my eyes, and over my head the

loveliest sky that can be imagined. I lack nothing, I am boarding with

excellent people, and it is likely that I shall write you to-morrow that

my uncertainties have disappeared. Do not forget to love your Thérèse,

who adores you."

Palmer had actually been at Spezzia since the preceding night. He had

purposely arrived just an hour after the sailing of the _Ferruccio_. Not

finding Thérèse at the _Maltese Cross_, and learning that she had

planned to put Laurent on board at the mouth of the bay, he awaited her

return. At nine o'clock, the boatman she had hired in the morning, who

belonged to the hotel, returned alone. The worthy man was not accustomed

to drink too much. He had been _surprised_ by a bottle of Cyprus, which

Laurent gave him after his lunch on the grass with Thérèse, and which

he drank during their stay on the Isola Palmaria; so that he remembered

well enough that he had put the signor and signora aboard the

_Ferruccio_, but had no remembrance of having afterward taken the

signora to Porto Venere.

If Palmer had questioned him calmly, he would soon have discovered that

the man's ideas were not very clear on the latter point; but the

American, notwithstanding his serious and impassive manner, was very

irritable and very passionate. He believed that Thérèse had gone with

Laurent, gone shamefacedly, afraid or unwilling to confess the truth to

him. He was thoroughly convinced, and returned to the hotel, where he

passed a terrible night.

We have not undertaken to tell the story of Richard Palmer. We have

entitled our tale _She and He_, that is to say, Thérèse and Laurent.

Of Palmer, therefore, we shall say no more than it is necessary to say

to make it possible to understand the events in which he was involved,

and we think that his character will be sufficiently explained by his

conduct. Let us hasten to say simply this, that Richard was as ardent as

he was romantic, that he had an abundance of pride, pride in the good

and the beautiful, but that the strength of his character did not always

come up to the idea he had formed of it, and that, while striving

constantly to rise above human nature, he cherished a noble dream, but

one probably impossible of realization in love.

He rose early, and walked by the shore of the bay, thinking seriously of

suicide, from which he was turned aside, however, by a feeling of

something like contempt for Thérèse; then the fatigue of a night of

intense agitation asserted itself and gave him sensible advice.

Thérèse was a woman, and he should not have subjected her to a

hazardous trial. But since he had done so, since Thérèse, whom he had

placed so high in his esteem, had been vanquished by a deplorable

passion after her sacred promises, why, he must never believe in any

woman, and no woman deserved the sacrifice of a good man's life. Palmer

had progressed thus far when he saw a graceful black cutter drawing near

the place where he stood, with a naval officer at the stern. The eight

oarsmen who pulled the long and narrow craft swiftly through the smooth

water tossed their white oars by way of salute, with military precision;

the officer stepped ashore and walked toward Richard, whom he had

recognized in the distance.

It was Captain Lawson, in command of the American frigate _Union_, which

had been stationed in the bay for a year. It is common knowledge that

the different maritime powers are accustomed to station war vessels, for

months or even for years, all over the globe to safeguard their

commercial interests.

Lawson had been a friend of Palmer's from boyhood, and Thérèse was

provided with a letter of introduction to him, in case she should care

to visit the ship while rowing about the harbor.

Palmer thought that Lawson would mention her, but he did not. He had

received no letter, had had no visit from any friend of Palmer's. He

invited him to breakfast on board, and Richard made no objection. The

_Union_ was to leave the station at the end of the spring. He conceived

the idea of seizing the opportunity to return to America in her.

Everything seemed to be at an end between Thérèse and him; however, he

determined to remain at Spezzia, the sight of the sea having always had

a strengthening influence upon him in the critical moments of his life.

He had been there three days, living on board the American vessel much

more than at the _Maltese Cross_, making an effort to revive his

interest in the study of navigation, which had occupied the greater part

of his life, when a young ensign, at breakfast one morning, declared,

half-laughing and half-sighing, that he had fallen in love the day

before, and that the object of his passion was a problem concerning

which he should be glad to have the opinion of a man of the world like

Palmer.

She was a woman apparently twenty-five to thirty years old. He had

simply seen her at a window at which she was seated making lace. Coarse

cotton lace is made by women all along the Genoese coast. It was

formerly a flourishing branch of commerce, which the looms have ruined,

but which still affords occupation and a trifling profit to the women

and girls of the coast. Therefore the young woman of whom the ensign was

enamored belonged to the artisan class, not only because of the work she

was doing, but because of the poverty of the house in which he had seen

her. And yet the cut of her black dress and the distinction of her

features caused some doubt in his mind. She had wavy hair, which was

neither dark nor light; dreamy eyes, a pale complexion. She had seen

that the young officer was gazing curiously at her from the inn, where

he had sought refuge from the rain. She had not condescended to

encourage him or to avoid his glances. She had presented a distressing

image of indifference personified.

The young seaman also stated that he questioned the innkeeper's wife at

Porto Venere. She had told him that the stranger had been there three

days, living with an old woman who said that she was her niece and who

probably lied, for she was an old schemer who let a miserable bedroom to

the detriment of the genuine, licensed public-house, and who apparently

presumed to invite and entertain guests, but who must feed them very

badly, for she had nothing, and for that reason deserved the contempt of

all well-to-do people and self-respecting travellers.

As a result of this harangue, the young ensign lost no time in going to

the old woman and asking her for lodgings for a friend of his whom he

was expecting, hoping, by means of this fable, to induce her to talk,

and to learn something about the stranger; but the old woman was

impenetrable, yes, and incorruptible.

The portrait that the officer drew of this young unknown aroused

Palmer's attention. It might be Thérèse; but what was she doing at

Porto Venere? why was she hiding there? Of course, she was not alone;

Laurent must be hidden in some other corner. Palmer deliberated whether

or not he should go to China in order not to witness his misfortune.

However, he adopted the more sensible course, which was to find out the

truth of the matter.

He crossed at once to Porto Venere, and had no difficulty in discovering

Thérèse, lodged and occupied as he had been told. They had an earnest

and frank explanation. They were both too sincere to sulk; so they both

confessed that they had been angry, Palmer because Thérèse had not let

him know where she had concealed herself, Thérèse because Palmer had

not sooner sought and found her.

"My dear," said he, "you seem to reproach me most of all for having, as

it were, exposed you to some danger. I did not believe that danger

existed!"

"You were right, and I thank you. But in that case, why were you so

depressed and despairing when I left you? and how does it happen that

you did not discover where I was the very first day after you arrived

here? Did you suppose that I had left, and that it was useless to search

for me?"

"Listen to me," said Palmer, evading the question, "and you will see

that I have had, during the last few days, much rough experience that

may well have made me lose my head. You will also understand why, having

first known you when you were very young and when it was possible for me

to think of marrying you, I let slip a happiness which I have never

ceased to dream of and to regret. I was at that time the lover of a

woman who has deceived me in a thousand ways. For ten years I considered

myself in duty bound to keep her on her feet and shelter her. At last,

she put the finishing-touch to her ingratitude and treachery, and I was

able to leave her, to forget her, and to dispose of myself as I chose.

But I fell in with that woman, whom I supposed to be in England, in

Florence, just as Laurent was about to leave. Abandoned by a new lover

who had taken my place, she desired and expected to recapture me: so

many times before had she found me generous or weak! She wrote me a

threatening letter, and, feigning an utterly absurd jealousy, she

declared that she would come to insult you in my presence. I knew that

she was a woman who would recoil from no scandal, and I would not for

anything in the world have had you see her in one of her fits of frenzy.

I could not persuade her not to appear on the scene, except by promising

to have an explanation with her the same day. She was living in the same

hotel where we were living with our sick man, and when Laurent's

carriage was at the door, she was on hand, determined to make a scene.

Her detestable and ridiculous plan was to exclaim before all the hotel

people and the whole street that I shared my new mistress with Laurent

de Fauvel. That is why I sent you away with him, and why I remained

behind, in order to have done with that mad woman without compromising

you, and without exposing you to the necessity of seeing her or

listening to her. Now, do not say again that my purpose was to subject

you to a test by leaving you alone with Laurent. I suffered enough on

that account, God knows! don't reproach me! And when I thought of your

having gone with him, all the demons of hell attacked me."

"And that is what I reproach you for," said Thérèse.

"Ah! what can you expect!" cried Palmer; "I have been so miserably

deceived in my life! That wretched woman stirred up a whole world of

bitterness and contempt in me."

"And that contempt overflowed on me!"

"Oh! don't say so, Thérèse!"

"But I, too, have been deceived," she rejoined, "and I believe in you

none the less."

"Let us say no more about it, my love; I regret that I have been driven

to tell you the story of my past. You will believe that it may react on

my future, and that, like Laurent, I shall make you pay for the

treachery with which I have been sated. Come, come, my dear Thérèse,

let us have done with these depressing thoughts. This place you are in

is enough to give one the blues. The boat is waiting; come and take up

your quarters at Spezzia."

"No," said Thérèse, "I shall stay here."

"What? what does this mean? hard feeling between us?"

"No, no, my dear Dick," she replied, offering him her hand; "I can never

be angry with you. Oh! I implore you, let our affection be ideally

sincere; for my part, I will do all that it is possible for a trustful

heart to do to that end; but I did not know that you were jealous,

whereas you were and you admit it. Be sure that it is not in my power to

avoid suffering keenly from your jealousy. It is so entirely opposed to

what you promised me, that I cannot help asking myself whither we are

going now, and why it was necessary that, on making my escape from a

hell, I should enter a purgatory, when I aspired to naught save repose

and solitude.--Not for myself alone do I dread these new tortures which

seem to be brewing for me; if it were possible that in love one of the

two should be happy while the other suffers, the path of self-sacrifice

would be all marked out and easy to follow; but, as you see, that is not

the case: I cannot have a moment's pain that you do not feel. So here am

I, who sought to render my life inoffensive, in a fair way to ruin your

life, and I am beginning to make a man unhappy! No, Palmer, believe me,

we thought that we knew each other, but we did not. What attracted me in

you was a trait which you have already lost--confidence. Don't you

understand that, debased as I was, I needed that, and nothing else, in

order to love you? If I should now accept your affection with its

blemishes and weaknesses, with its doubts and tempests, would you not be

justified in saying to yourself that I was influenced by selfish motives

in marrying you? Oh! do not say that idea will never occur to you; it

will occur to you in spite of yourself. I know too well how a person

goes from one suspicion to another, and what a steep incline hurries us

from a first disenchantment to humiliating repulsion! Now I, for my

part, have drunk enough of that gall! I want no more of it, and I do not

assume too much in saying I am no longer capable of undergoing what I

have undergone; I told you so the very first day, and, although you may

have forgotten it, I remember it. Let us put aside this idea of

marriage," she added, "and remain friends. I retract my promise

provisionally, until I can rely upon your esteem, such esteem as I

supposed that I possessed. If you are not willing to submit to a trial,

let us part at once. As for myself, I swear that I do not propose to owe

anything to you, not even the most trivial service, while I am in my

present position. I must tell you what that position is, for you must

fully understand my purpose. I have board and lodging here on the

strength of my word, for I am absolutely penniless, I gave all I had to

Vicentino to pay the expenses of Laurent's journey; but it happens that

I can make lace quicker and better than the women hereabout, and,

pending the arrival of my money from Genoa, I can earn enough from day

to day to pay my excellent landlady for the very frugal board with which

she supplies me, if not to reward her. I am neither distressed nor

humiliated by this state of things, and it must continue until my money

arrives. Then I will see what it is best to do. Until then, return to

Spezzia, and come to see me when you choose; I will make lace as we

chat."

Palmer had to submit, and he submitted with a good grace. He hoped to

regain Thérèse's confidence, which he felt that he had shaken by his

own fault.

X

A few days later, Thérèse received a letter from Geneva. Laurent

accused himself, in writing, of all that he had previously accused

himself of in speech, as if he had determined to perpetuate thus the

testimony of his repentance.

"No," he wrote, "I was not capable of deserving you. I was unworthy of

such a generous, pure, and unselfish affection. I tired out your

patience, O my sister, my mother! Even the angels would have been tired

of me! Ah! Thérèse, as I return to health and life, my memory becomes

clearer, and I look into my past as into a mirror, which shows me the

spectre of a man whom I once knew, but whom I no longer understand.

Surely, that poor devil was mad; don't you think, Thérèse, that, as I

drew nearer to that ghastly physical illness from which you saved me, I

may have been, even three or four months beforehand, in the grasp of a

moral illness which took from me all consciousness of my words and my

acts? Ah! if that were so, should you not have forgiven me? But what I

am saying lacks common-sense, alas! What is wrong-doing, if not a moral

malady? Could not the man who kills his father allege the same excuse

that I do? Good, evil--this is the first time that idea has ever

bothered me. Before I knew you and made you suffer, my poor love, I had

never thought of it. Evil was to my mind a monster of low estate, the

apocalyptic beast that soils with his hideous caresses the offscourings

of mankind in the unhealthy bogs of society; could evil come near me,

the man of fashion, the Parisian _beau_, the son of the Muses? Ah! fool

that I was, I imagined, because my beard was perfumed and my hands

neatly gloved, that my caresses would purify the great harlot of the

nations, debauchery, my fiancée, who had bound me to her with chains as

noble as those with which convicts are bound in the galleys! And I

sacrificed you, my poor, sweet mistress, in my brutal egotism, and after

that I held my head erect, saying: 'It was my right, she belonged to me;

nothing that I have the right to do can be evil!'--Ah! miserable,

miserable creature that I am! my behavior was criminal; and I never

suspected it! Nothing would make me understand it but to lose you, you,

my only treasure, the only mortal who had ever loved me and who was

capable of loving the insane and ungrateful child that I was! Not until

I saw my guardian angel veil her face and resume her flight heavenward

did I realize that I was forever alone and abandoned on earth!"

A large part of this first letter was written in a lofty tone, the

sincerity of which was confirmed by realistic touches and abrupt changes

of manner, characteristic of Laurent.

"Would you believe that, on my arrival at Geneva, the first thing that I

did, even before I thought of writing to you, was to go out and buy a

waistcoat? Yes, a summer waistcoat, a very pretty one, on my word, and

very well made, which I found at a French tailor's,--a most agreeable

find for a traveller in great haste to leave this city of watchmakers

and naturalists! Behold me, therefore, parading the streets of Geneva,

delighted with my new waistcoat, and halting in front of a book-shop

where an edition of Byron, bound in exquisite taste, offered an

irresistible temptation to me. What am I to read while travelling? I

cannot endure books of travel, unless they treat of countries which I

shall never be able to visit. I prefer the poets, who take you into the

world of their dreams, and I purchased this edition. And then I followed

aimlessly a very pretty girl in a short dress who passed me, and whose

ankle seemed to me a masterpiece of jointing. I followed her, thinking

much more of my waistcoat than of her. Suddenly she turned to the right

and I to the left without noticing it, and I found myself back at my

hotel, where, as I went to put my new books in my trunk, I discovered

the double violets that you strewed in my cabin on the _Ferruccio_ when

we parted. I picked them up, one by one, with great care, and kept them

as a relic; but they made me weep like a waterspout, and, glancing at my

new waistcoat, which had been the principal event of my morning, I said

to myself:

"'And yet this is the child that poor woman loved!'"

Elsewhere he said:

"You made me promise to take care of my health. 'As it was I who gave it

back to you,' you said, 'it belongs to me in a measure, and I have the

right to forbid you to throw it away.'--Alas! my Thérèse, what do you

expect me to do with this infernal health, which begins to intoxicate me

like new wine? The spring is at hand, it is the season for loving, I

know; but is it in my power to love? _You_ were unable to inspire true

love in my heart, and do you suppose that I shall meet a woman capable

of performing the miracle that you could not perform? Where am I to find

this magician? In society? No, surely not: there are no women there but

those who do not choose to risk or sacrifice anything. They are quite

right, no doubt, and you could tell them, my poor dear, that those for

whom a woman sacrifices herself seldom deserve it; but it is not my

fault if I can no more readily make up my mind to share with a husband

than with a lover. But should I love a maiden? and marry her? Oh!

surely, Thérèse, you cannot think of that without laughing--or without

trembling. Think of me, chained by the law, when even my own desires are

powerless to chain me!

"I once had a friend who loved a grisette and who believed that she was

true to him. I paid court to that faithful light-o'-love, and she was

mine for a green parrot which her lover would not give her. She said,

artlessly: '_Dame_! 'tis his own fault; why didn't he give me that

parrot!' And from that day I have sworn never to love a kept woman, that

is to say, a woman who longs for everything her lover does not give her.

"Thus, in the way of mistresses, there seems to be nothing left but an

adventuress, such as we meet on the high-roads, who are all born

princesses but have had _misfortunes_. Too many misfortunes, thank you!

I am not rich enough to fill the gulf of those past lives.--A famous

actress? That idea has often tempted me; but my mistress must renounce

the public, and the public is a lover that I do not feel the strength to

replace. No, no, Thérèse, I cannot love! I ask too much, and I ask

what I cannot give back; so I shall have to return to my former life. I

prefer that, because your image in my heart will never be contaminated

by possible comparisons. Why should my life not be arranged thus: women

for the passions, and a mistress for my heart? It is not in your power

nor in mine, Thérèse, to effect that you should be that mistress, that

ideal which I have dreamed of, lost, and wept for, and of which I dream

now more longingly than ever. I will never suggest such a thing to you,

for you may take offence. I will love you in my secret thoughts so that

no one will know it and no other woman can ever say: 'I have replaced

that Thérèse!'

"My dear, you must grant me a favor which you denied me during those

last dear, sweet days that we passed together; you must tell me

something of Palmer. You have thought that would increase my pain. But

you are mistaken. It would have killed me the first time that I

questioned you about him angrily; I was still sick and a little mad;

but, when my reason returned, when you let me guess the _secret_ that

you were not obliged to confide to me, I felt, in the midst of my grief,

that by being reconciled to your happiness I should atone for all my

wrong-doing. I watched closely your manner when you were together; I saw

that he loved you passionately, and that he seemed, nevertheless, to

have a fatherly affection for me. That was too much for me, Thérèse. I

had no conception of such generosity, such grandeur in love. Lucky

Palmer! how sure he is of you, how fully he understands you, and

consequently deserves you! It reminded me of the time when I said to

you: 'Love Palmer, you will do me a great favor!'--Ah! what a hateful

sentiment I had in my heart at that time! I longed to be delivered from

your love, which overwhelmed me with remorse, and yet, if you had

answered me then: 'I do love him,' I would have killed you!

"And he, that great, warm heart, already loved you, and was not afraid

to devote his life to you, when perhaps you still loved me! Under such

circumstances, I would never have dared to take the risk. I had too

large a dose of that pride which we parade so haughtily, we men of the

world, and which was invented by fools to prevent us from striving to

win happiness at any risk to ourselves, or from even knowing enough to

grasp it when it is slipping from us.

"Yes, I propose to confess to the end, my poor dear. When I said to you:

'Love Palmer,' I believed, at times, that you already loved him, and

that is what finally drew me apart from you. In the last days, there

were many hours when I was on the point of throwing myself at your feet;

I was kept from it by this thought: 'It is too late, she loves another.

It was my wish, but she should not have consented. Therefore she is

unworthy of me!'

"That is how I reasoned in my madness, and yet I am sure now that if I

had come back to you in all sincerity, even though you had begun to love

Dick, you would have sacrificed him to me. You would have entered anew

upon that martyrdom which I forced on you. Tell me, did I not do well to

run away? I felt that I did, when I left you. Yes, Thérèse, that was

what gave me strength to run away to Florence without a word to you. I

felt that I was killing you day by day, and that there was no other way

to undo the wrong I had done you than to leave you with a man who really

loved you.

"That was what sustained my courage at Spezzia, too, during that day

when I might have made another attempt to obtain my pardon; but that

detestable thought did not once occur to me, I give you my word, my

friend. I don't know whether you had told that boatman not to lose sight

of us; but it was quite unnecessary. I would have thrown myself into the

sea rather than try to betray the confidence in me which Palmer

displayed in leaving us together.

"Say to him, then, that I love him dearly, as much as I can love. Tell

him that it is to him as much as to you that I am indebted for having

condemned and executed myself as I have done. I suffered terribly, God

knows, in committing that suicide of the old man! But I am proud of

myself now. All my former friends would consider that I had been a fool

or a coward not to try to kill my rival in a duel, and then to abandon

the woman who had betrayed me, spitting in her face. Yes, Thérèse,

that is the judgment which I myself should probably have pronounced upon

another man for conducting himself as I have conducted myself toward you

and Palmer with so much resolution and delight. I am not a brute, thank

God! I am not good for much, but I understand how little I am good for,

and I do myself justice.

"So write me about Palmer, and do not be afraid that it will hurt me;

far from it; it will be my consolation in my hours of spleen. It will be

my strength, too; for your poor child is still sadly weak, and, when he

begins to think of what he might have been and what he actually is to

you, his head becomes still more confused. But tell me that you are

happy, and I will say, proudly: 'I might have disturbed, combated, and

perhaps destroyed her happiness; I did not do it. So it is my work to

some extent, and I am entitled now to Thérèse's friendship."

Thérèse replied affectionately to her poor child. That was the title

under which he was thenceforth buried and, as it were, embalmed in the

sanctuary of the past. Thérèse loved Palmer; at least, she wished to

love him, and believed that she did. It did not seem to her that she

could ever regret the time when, as she afterward said, she looked up

every morning when she woke to see if the house were not falling about

her ears.

And yet something was lacking, and an indefinable depression of spirits

had taken possession of her since she had dwelt upon that livid-hued

cliff of Porto Venere. It was as if she were held aloof from life,

which, at times, was not without a charm for her; but there was a touch

of gloom and dejection in her feelings, which was unnatural to her and

which she could not explain to herself.

It was impossible for her to do what Laurent asked with regard to

Palmer; she wrote of him briefly in the highest terms, and conveyed the

most affectionate messages from him; but she could not make up her mind

to make him a confidant of their relations. She felt disinclined to

divulge her real situation, that is to say, to confide to him plans

concerning which she had not absolutely made up her own mind. And even

if she had decided, would it not have been too early to say to Laurent:

"You are still suffering? so much the worse for you! I am to be

married!"

The money that she expected did not arrive for a fortnight. She made

lace during that fortnight with a perseverance that drove Palmer to

despair. When, at last, she found herself in possession of a few

bank-notes, she paid her kind landlady handsomely, and indulged in a

sail around the bay with Palmer; but she desired to remain at Porto

Venere a little longer, although she could not explain why she clung to

that dismal and wretched hamlet.

There are phases of the mind which one feels much more distinctly than

one can describe them. In her letters to her mother, Thérèse succeeded

in pouring out her whole heart.

"I am still here," she wrote in July, "notwithstanding the intense heat.

I have attached myself like a shell-fish to this rock where no tree has

ever thought of growing, but where brisk and revivifying breezes blow.

The climate is severe but healthy, and the constant view of the sea,

which formerly I could not endure, has become, in a certain sense,

necessary to me. The country which lies behind me, and which I can reach

by boat in less than two hours, was fascinating in the spring. On

walking inland from the head of the bay, two or three leagues from the

shore, you come across some most peculiar spots. There is one place

where the ground was all torn up by earthquakes Heaven knows how many

years ago, where the surface presents most extraordinary irregularities.

There is a series of hills of red sand, covered with pines and heather,

rising one above another, with natural paths of considerable width on

their summits, which paths end abruptly on the brink of sheer precipices

and leave you sorely perplexed as to how you are to go on. If you

retrace your steps and lose your way in the labyrinth of narrow paths

trodden by the herds, you come to other precipices, and Palmer and I

have passed whole hours on those wooded hill-tops, unable to find the

path by which we had come. Beyond these hills is a vast expanse of

tilled land, broken here and there, with something like regularity, by

similar curious excrescences, and beyond that vast expanse stretches the

blue immensity of the sea. The horizon seems boundless in that

direction. Toward the north and east are the Maritime Alps, whose

sharply outlined peaks were still covered with snow when I arrived here.

"But it is all over with the great fields of wild roses and the trees of

white heather which gave forth so sweet and delicious a perfume in the

early days of May. Then it was an earthly paradise: the woods were full

of Alpine ebony-trees, of Judas-trees, of fragrant genesta, and laburnum

gleaming like gold amid the black clumps of myrtle. Now everything is

burned, the pines exhale an acrid odor, the fields of lupin, lately so

fragrant and so bright with blossoms, display naught but shorn stalks,

as black as if they had been overrun by fire; the crops are harvested,

the ground smokes in the noonday sun, and one must rise early in order

to walk without discomfort. So that, as it takes at least four hours,

whether by boat or on foot, to reach the wooded part of the country, the

return journey is far from pleasant, and all the heights on the

immediate shores of the bay, magnificent as they are in shape and in the

views they afford, are so bare, that it is cooler at Porto Venere and on

Isola Palmaria.

"And then there is a scourge at Spezzia: I mean the mosquitoes, bred by

the stagnant waters of a small pond near by and of the vast marshes,

possession of which the hand of the husbandman disputes with the waters

of the sea. Here there is no water on shore to annoy us; we have only

the sea and the bare rock, consequently no insects, and not a blade of

grass; but such golden and purple clouds, such sublime tempests, such

solemn calms! The sea is a picture which changes in color and feeling at

every moment of the day and night. There are chasms here filled with

uproars of which you cannot conceive the terrifying variety; the sobbing

of despair, the imprecations of hell, seem to have appointed a meeting

there, and, from my little window, at night, I hear those voices of the

abyss, sometimes roaring a nameless bacchanalian refrain, sometimes

singing wild hymns, awe-inspiring even in their mildest form.

"And I love all this now, I who always cherished rustic tastes and a

love for tranquil little green nooks. Is it because in that fatal

love-affair I became accustomed to storms and to a craving for tumult?

Perhaps so. We women are such strange creatures! I must confess to you,

my own beloved, that many days passed before I could accustom myself to

the absence of my daily torment. I did not know what to do with myself,

having nobody to wait upon and nurse. Palmer would have done well to be

a little overbearing; but observe my injustice: as soon as he showed

signs of being so, I rebelled, and now that he has become as kind as an

angel once more, I don't know how to deal with the horrible ennui that

assails me now and again. Woe is me! that is the truth.--And must I tell

you? No, it is better that I should not find out myself, or if I do,

that I should not grieve you with my madness. I intended to write of

nothing but the country, my walks, my occupations, and my dull chamber

under the roof, or rather on the roof, where I take pleasure in being

alone, unknown, forgotten by the world, with no duties, no customers, no

business, no other work than that which it pleases me to do. I get

little children to pose for me, and I amuse myself arranging them in

groups; but all this will not satisfy you, and if I don't tell you where

I stand with regard to my heart and my desires, you will be more anxious

than ever. Very well; it is a fact that I have fully decided to marry

Palmer, and that I love him; but I have not yet been able to make up my

mind to appoint a time for the marriage; I fear for him and for myself

the morrow of that indissoluble union. I have passed the age of

illusions, and after such a life as mine one has had a hundred years of

experience and consequently of terrors! I believed that I was absolutely

severed from Laurent, and so, in fact, I was, at Genoa, on the day that

he told me I was his scourge, the assassin of his genius and his glory.

But now I no longer feel so entirely independent of him; since his

sickness, his repentance, and the letters he has written me during these

last two months, letters adorable in their gentleness and resignation, I

feel that a solemn duty still binds me to that ill-fated child, and I am

reluctant to wound him by a complete desertion. And yet that is just

what is likely to happen on the day after my marriage. Palmer has had a

moment's jealousy, and that jealousy may return on the day that he has

the right to say to me: _I wish it_! I no longer love Laurent, my

beloved, I swear it, I would rather die than love him; but on the day

that Palmer seeks to break the friendship which has survived that

unhappy passion in my heart, perhaps I shall cease to love Palmer.

"I have told him all this; he understands it, for he prides himself on

being a great philosopher, and he persists in believing what seems fair

and right to him to-day will never bear a different aspect in his eyes.

I believe it also, and yet I ask him to allow the days to pass, without

counting them, and without disturbing our present calm and pleasant

situation. I have attacks of spleen, it is true; but Palmer is not

naturally very keen-sighted, and I can conceal them from him. I can wear

before him what Laurent used to call my sick bird's face, without

frightening him. If my future suffering is limited to this, that I may

have irritated nerves and gloomy thoughts without his noticing it or

being affected by it, we can live together as happily as possible. If he

should begin to scrutinize my absent-minded glances, to seek to pierce

the veil of my reveries, to do, in short, ali the cruel, childish things

with which Laurent used to overwhelm me in my hours of moral weakness, I

feel that I have not the strength to struggle longer, and I should

prefer that he would kill me at once; it would be done with the sooner."

About the same time, Thérèse received from Laurent so ardent a letter

that she was alarmed by it. It was no longer the enthusiasm of

friendship, but of love. The silence that Thérèse had maintained

concerning her relations with Palmer had restored the artist's hope of

renewing his intimacy with her. He could not live without her; he had

made vain efforts to return to a life of pleasure. Disgust had seized

him by the throat.

"Ah! Thérèse," he said, "I used to reproach you for loving too

chastely and for being better adapted for the convent than for love. How

could I have blasphemed thus? Since I have been trying to renew my

acquaintance with vice, I feel myself that I am becoming as pure as in

my childhood, and the women I see tell me that I would make a good monk.

No, no, I shall never forget what there was between us above and beyond

love, that motherly gentleness which watched over me for long hours with

a placid, melting smile, those outpourings of the heart, those

aspirations to a higher intelligence, that twofold poem of which we were

the authors and the characters, without realizing it. Thérèse, if you

do not belong to Palmer, you cannot belong to any one but me! with what

other man can you find again those profound, ardent emotions? Were all

our days unhappy? Were there not some delicious ones? Besides, is it

happiness that you seek, you, the self-sacrificing woman? Can you do

without suffering for some one, and did you not call me sometimes, when

you pardoned my follies, your dear torment, your necessary torment?

Remember, remember, Thérèse! You suffered, and you are alive. I made

you suffer, and I am dying! Have I not atoned sufficiently? Three long

months of death-agony for my heart!"

Then came reproaches. Thérèse had said too much or too little. Her

expressions of friendship were too warm if it was only friendship, too

cold and too reserved if it was love. She must have the courage either

to give him new life or to kill him.

Thérèse decided to reply that she loved Palmer, and that she expected

to love him forever, but did not speak of the projected marriage, which

she could not make up her mind to consider as definitely decided upon.

She softened as much as she could the blow that confession was certain

to deal to Laurent's pride.

"Understand," she said, "that it is not, as you claimed, to _punish_

you, that I have given my heart and my life to another. No, you were

fully forgiven on the day that I responded to Palmer's affection, and I

proved it by hurrying to Florence with him. Do you think, my poor child,

that, when I nursed you as I did during your illness, I was there simply

as a Sister of Charity? No, no, it was not duty that tied me to your

bedside, but a mother's affection. Does not a mother always forgive?

Well, it will be always so with me, as you will see! Whenever, without

failing in my duty to Palmer, I can serve you, nurse you, and comfort

you, you will find me ready. It is because Palmer makes no objection to

that, that I am able to love him and do love him. If it had been

necessary for me to pass from your arms into those of your enemy, I

should have had a horror of myself; but it was just the opposite. Our

hands met as we swore to each other that we would watch over you, would

never abandon you."

Thérèse showed this letter to Palmer, who was deeply moved by it, and

insisted upon writing to Laurent himself, to make similar promises of

constant solicitude and true affection.

Laurent made them wait for another letter from him. He had begun to

dream a new dream, and saw it fly away beyond hope of recall. He was

deeply affected at first; but he resolved to shake off the sorrow which

he felt that he had not the strength to bear. There took place in him

one of those sudden and complete revolutions which were sometimes the

scourge, sometimes the salvation, of his life; and he wrote to

Thérèse:

"Bless you, my adored sister; I am happy, I am proud of your faithful

friendship, and Palmer's cordial words moved me to tears. Why did you

not speak sooner, bad girl? I should not have suffered so keenly. What

did I crave, in truth? To know that you were happy, nothing more. It was

because I thought that you were alone and sad, that I came and knelt

again at your feet, and said: 'Since you are suffering, let us suffer

together. I long to share your sorrows, your vexations, and your

solitude.'--Was not that my duty and my right?--But you are happy,

Thérèse, therefore so am I. I bless you for telling me. At last, I am

delivered from the remorse that was gnawing at my heart! I can walk with

my head erect, breathe freely, and say to myself that I have not marred

and ruined the life of the best of friends. Ah! I am full of pride to

feel within me this generous joy, instead of the horrible jealousy that

formerly tortured me!

"Dear Thérèse, dear Palmer, you are my two guardian angels. You have

brought me happiness. Thanks to you, I feel at last that I was born for

something different from the life I have led. I am born again, I feel

the air of heaven descend into my lungs, which thirst for a pure

atmosphere. My being is transformed. I am going to love.

"Yes, I am going to love, I love already! I love a pure and lovely child

who knows nothing of my love as yet, and in whose presence I take a

mysterious pleasure in guarding the secret of my heart, and in appearing

and acting as artless, as gay, as child-like as herself. Ah! how lovely

they are, these first days of a newly-born emotion! Is there not

something sublime and terrifying in this idea: 'I am going to betray

myself, that is to say, I am going to give myself away! to-morrow,

perhaps to-night, I shall cease to belong to myself'?

"Rejoice, my Thérèse, in this conclusion of your poor child's sad and

insane youth. Say to yourself that this rehabilitation of a creature who

seemed lost, and who, instead of crawling about in the mire, now spreads

his wings like a bird, is the work of your love, your gentleness, your

patience, your anger, your sternness, your forgiveness, and your

friendship! Yes, it required all the changing scenes of a private drama

in which I was vanquished to force me to open my eyes. I am your

handiwork, your son, your labor and your reward, your martyrdom and your

crown. Bless me, both of you, my friends, and pray for me: I am going to

love!"

All the rest of the letter was in this strain. On receiving this hymn of

joy and gratitude, Thérèse felt for the first time that her own

happiness was complete and assured. She held out both hands to Palmer,

and said:

"And now, when and where shall we be married?"

XI

It was decided that the marriage should take place in America. Palmer

looked forward with intense delight to presenting Thérèse to his

mother, and receiving the nuptial benediction before her eyes.

Thérèse's mother could not promise to be present, even if the ceremony

should take place in France. She was compensated for the disappointment

by the joy she felt in the knowledge that her daughter was pledged to a

sensible and devoted man. She could not endure Laurent, and she was

always in mortal terror that Thérèse would fall under his yoke again.

The _Union_ was making preparations for her voyage. Captain Lawson

offered to take Palmer and his fiancée as passengers. Everybody on

board was overjoyed at the prospect of crossing the ocean with that

favorite couple. The young ensign atoned for his impertinence by

maintaining a most respectful attitude toward Thérèse, and conceiving

the most sincere esteem for her.

Thérèse, having made all her preparations to sail on August 18th,

received a letter from her mother begging her to come first to Paris, if

for no more than twenty-four hours. She had to go thither herself on

some family matters. Who could say when Thérèse would return from

America? The poor mother was not happy with her other children, who,

guided by the example of a suspicious and irritable husband, were

insubordinate and cold toward her. So she loved Thérèse all the more

dearly, who alone had really been a loving daughter and devoted friend

to her. She wished to give her her blessing and to embrace her, perhaps

for the last time, for she felt prematurely aged, sick, and fatigued by

a life of constant insecurity and without love.

Palmer was more disturbed by this letter than he cared to confess.

Although he had always referred with apparent satisfaction to the

certainty of a lasting friendship between Laurent and himself, he had

not ceased to be anxious, in spite of himself, touching the sentiments

which might spring to new life in Thérèse's heart when she should see

him again. Not that he was conscious of this anxiety when he asserted

the contrary; but he became conscious of it on the 18th of August, when

the guns of the American man-of-war woke the echoes of the gulf of

Spezzia with repeated farewell salutes, throughout the day.

Each report made him jump, and, at the last one, he wrung his hands

until he nearly cracked the joints.

Thérèse was surprised. She had had no suspicion of Palmer's uneasiness

since the explanation they had had together at the beginning of their

residence in that neighborhood.

"_Mon Dieu_! what is the matter?" she cried, watching him closely. "What

presentiment----"

"Yes! that is it," replied Palmer, hastily. "I have a

presentiment--about Lawson, my friend from boyhood. I don't know

why.--Yes, yes, it is a presentiment!"

"Do you think that something will happen to him at sea?"

"Perhaps. Who can tell? However, you will not be exposed to it, thank

Heaven, as we are going to Paris."

"The _Union_ is to touch at Brest, and remain there a fortnight. Are we

not going to join her there?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure, unless some catastrophe happens between now and

then."

Palmer continued downcast and depressed, nor could Thérèse imagine

what was going on in his mind. How could she have imagined? Laurent was

taking the waters at Baden; Palmer knew it perfectly well. Moreover,

Laurent had his own marriage plans as he had written.

They set off by post the next day, and returned to France by Turin and

Mont Cenis, stopping nowhere on the way.

The journey was extraordinarily dull. Palmer saw signs of disaster

everywhere; he confessed to superstitions and mental foibles which were

entirely foreign to his character. Ordinarily so placid and so mild a

master, he indulged in savage fits of temper against the postilions,

against the roads, against the customs officers, against the passers-by.

Thérèse had never seen him in such a mood. She could not refrain from

telling him so. He answered with meaningless words, but with so sombre

an expression and so marked an accent of irritation, that she was afraid

of him, and consequently of the future.

Some lives are pursued by an implacable destiny. While Thérèse and

Palmer were returning to France by Mont Cenis, Laurent was returning

thither by Geneva. He reached Paris some hours in advance of them, his

mind engrossed by a painful anxiety. He had discovered at last that

Thérèse, to make it possible for him to travel for a few months, had

parted with every sou that she then possessed, and he had learned (for

everything comes to light sooner or later) from a person who had visited

Spezzia at that time, that Mademoiselle Jacques was living at Porto

Venere in extraordinarily straitened circumstances, and was making lace

to pay for her lodgings at the rate of six francs per month.

Humiliated and repentant, angry and hopeless, he determined to learn the

exact truth with reference to Thérèse's present situation. He knew

that she was too proud to consent to accept anything from Palmer, and he

said to himself, reasonably enough, that if she had not been paid for

the work she did at Genoa, she must have sold her furniture in Paris.

He hurried to the Champs-Elysées, trembling lest he should find

strangers installed in that dear little house, which he could not

approach without a violent beating of the heart. As there was no

concierge, he had to ring at the garden-gate, and he wondered who would

come in answer. He knew nothing of Thérèse's approaching marriage, he

did not even know that she was free to marry. The last letter that she

had written him touching on that subject had reached Baden the day after

his departure.

He was delighted beyond measure when the gate was opened by old

Catherine. He leaped on her neck; but his spirits instantly sank when he

saw the consternation depicted on the goodwoman's face.

"What have you come here for?" she said, angrily. "Have you found out

that mademoiselle is coming to-day? Can't you leave her in peace? Have

you come to make her miserable again? They told me that you had

separated, and I was glad of it; for, although I was fond of you at

first, I had grown to detest you. I saw plainly enough that you were the

cause of her troubles and her sorrows. Come, come, don't stay here

waiting for her, unless you have made a vow to kill her!"

"You say that she is coming to-day!" Laurent exclaimed again and again.

That was all that he had heard of the old servant's lecture. He entered

Thérèse's studio, the small lilac salon, and even the bedroom, raising

the gray covers that Catherine had spread over all the furniture to

preserve it. He gazed at all those rare and fascinating things one by

one, artistic, dainty objects which Thérèse had bought with the fruits

of her toil; not one was missing. There seemed to have been no change in

Thérèse's Parisian environment, and Laurent repeated in a slightly

bewildered tone, looking at Catherine, who was following him step by

step, with an anxious air:

"She is coming to-day!"

When he said that he loved a lovely child with a love as pure and fair

as she, Laurent had boasted unduly. He had believed that he was telling

the truth when he wrote to Thérèse, with the passionate warmth to

which he was wont to give way when speaking to her of himself, and which

contrasted so strangely with the cold and mocking tone he felt called

upon to adopt in society. The declaration he was supposed to have made

to the young woman who had filled his dreams, he had not made. A bird or

a cloud, passing through the sky at night, had sufficed to overthrow the

fragile edifice of happiness and passionate declamation which had sprung

up in the morning in that childish, poetic imagination. The fear of

making himself ridiculous had taken possession of him, or else the fear

of being cured of his invincible and fatal passion for Thérèse.

He remained there, making no reply to Catherine, who, being in haste to

prepare everything for her dear mistress's arrival, decided to leave him

alone. Laurent was agitated beyond expression. He asked himself why

Thérèse was returning to Paris without telling him. Was she coming

secretly with Palmer, or had she done as Laurent had done himself? Had

she announced to him a happiness which had no existence, and the thought

of which had already vanished? Did not this sudden and mysterious return

conceal a rupture with Dick?

Laurent was at once overjoyed and terrified by the thought. A thousand

contrary ideas and emotions wrangled in his brain and in his nerves.

There was a moment when he himself insensibly forgot the reality, and

persuaded himself that those linen-covered objects were tombs in a

cemetery. He had always had a horror of death, and his mind dwelt

constantly upon it, in spite of himself. He saw it about him in all its

forms. He fancied that he was surrounded by shrouds, and sprang to his

feet in terror, crying:

"Who is dead, then? Is it Thérèse? is it Palmer? I see, I feel that

some one is dead in this neighborhood to which I have returned!--No, it

is you," he replied, talking to himself, "it is you, who have lived in

this house the only real days of your life, and who return hither

lifeless, abandoned, forgotten, like a corpse!"

Catherine returned, unnoticed by him, removed the coverings, dusted the

furniture, threw all the windows and blinds wide open, and placed

flowers in the great china vases which stood on gilt consoles. Then she

approached him, and said:

"Well, what are you doing here?"

Laurent came out of his dream, and, looking about him in a dazed sort of

way, saw the flowers reflected in the mirrors, the Boule cabinets

glistening in the sun, and the whole holiday aspect which had succeeded,

as if by magic, the funereal atmosphere of absence, which does, in

truth, so closely resemble death.

His hallucination took another course.

"What am I doing here?" he said, smiling darkly; "true, what am I doing

here? To-day is a holiday in Thérèse's house, a day of joy and

oblivion. Evidently the mistress of this house has appointed a

rendezvous here to-day, and certainly it is not I whom she expects, I,

a dead man! What business has a corpse in this nuptial chamber? And what

will she say when she sees me here? She will say, as you do, poor old

woman; she will say: 'Begone! your place is in a coffin!'"

Laurent talked as if he were in a fever. Catherine felt sorry for him.

"He is mad," she thought; "he always was."

And as she was thinking what she should say to send him away quietly,

she heard a carriage stop in the street. In her joy at seeing Thérèse

again, she forgot Laurent, and hastened to open the door.

Palmer was there with Thérèse; but, being in haste to rid himself of

the dust of the journey, and not wishing to give Thérèse the trouble

of having the post-chaise unloaded at her door, he stepped in again at

once and ordered the postilions to drive him to Hôtel Meurice, saying

to Thérèse that he would return in two hours to dine with her, and

would bring her trunks.

Thérèse embraced her dear old Catherine, and, while she questioned her

concerning her own health during their separation, entered the house

with that impatient curiosity, sometimes joyous, sometimes anxious,

which we instinctively feel on returning to a place where we have lived

a long while; so that Catherine had no opportunity to tell her that

Laurent was there, and she surprised him sitting on the sofa in the

salon, pale, absorbed, and, as it were, petrified. He had not heard the

carriage, nor the noise of doors hurriedly opened and closed. He was

still buried in his dismal meditations when he saw her before him. He

uttered a terrible cry, darted toward her to embrace her, and fell,

gasping for breath, almost fainting, at her feet.

They had to remove his cravat, and give him ether to inhale. He was

suffocating, and his heart beat so violently that his whole body was

shaken as by a succession of electric shocks. Thérèse, dismayed to see

him thus, thought that he had fallen sick again. However, his youthful

vigor soon returned, and she noticed that he had grown stout. He swore a

thousand times that he had never been in better health, and that he was

overjoyed to find her improved and her eye as clear and bright as on the

first day of their love. He knelt before her and kissed her feet to

testify his respect and adoration. His outpourings of emotion were so

ardent that Thérèse was disturbed, and thought it her duty to remind

him at once of her impending departure and her approaching marriage to

Palmer.

"What? what's that? what do you say?" cried Laurent, as pale as if the

lightning had struck at his feet. "Departure! marriage!--How? why? am I

still dreaming? did you say those words?"

"Yes," she replied, "I did say them. I had already written them to you;

did you not receive my letter?"

"Departure! marriage!" repeated Laurent; "why, you used to say that it

was impossible! Remember! there were days when I regretted that I could

not impose silence on people who tore your reputation to pieces, by

giving you my name and my whole life. And you always said: 'Never,

never, so long as that man lives!'--Is he dead, pray? or do you love

Palmer as you never loved me, since for him you brush aside scruples

which I thought well founded, and defy a horrible scandal, which I

consider inevitable?"

"The Comte de ---- is dead, and I am free."

Laurent was so thunderstruck by this revelation, that he forgot all his

schemes of disinterested, fraternal friendship. What Thérèse had

foreseen at Genoa, happened under peculiarly distressing conditions.

Laurent conceived a most exalted idea of the happiness he might have

enjoyed as Thérèse's husband, and he shed torrents of tears; nor could

words of reason or remonstrance produce any effect upon his perturbed

and despairing heart. His grief was expressed so vehemently, and his

tears were so genuine, that Thérèse could not escape the emotion

naturally incident to a pathetic, heart-rending scene. She had never

been able to see Laurent suffer without feeling all the compassion of

maternal love, reproachful but vanquished. She tried in vain to restrain

her own tears. They were not tears of regret, she was not deceived by

this vertigo from which Laurent was suffering, and which was nothing

more than vertigo; but it acted on her nerves, and the nerves of such a

woman were the very fibres of her heart, torn by a pain which she could

not understand.

She succeeded finally in calming him, and, by speaking to him gently and

affectionately, in persuading him to look upon her marriage as the

wisest and best solution for them both. Laurent agreed, with a sad

smile.

"Yes," he said, "I should certainly have made a detestable husband, and

_he_ will make you happy! Heaven owed you that compensation and that

reward. You are quite right to thank Heaven for it and to consider that

it preserves you from a wretched existence, and me from a remorse worse

than the old one. It is because all that is so true, so wise, so

logical, and so well arranged, that I am so unhappy!"

And he began to sob afresh.

Palmer entered the house unheard by either of them. He was, in truth,

oppressed by a ghastly presentiment, and, albeit entirely without

premeditation, he arrived like a jealous man whose suspicions have been

aroused, ringing very softly, and walking so that his footsteps made no

noise on the floor. He stopped at the door of the salon and recognized

Laurent's voice.

"Ah! I was perfectly sure of it!" he said to himself, tearing the glove

which he had held in his hand to be put on at the door, apparently to

give himself time for reflection before entering. He thought it best to

knock.

"Come in!" cried Thérèse hastily, astounded that any one should insult

her by knocking at the door of her salon.

When she saw Palmer, she turned pale. What he had done was more eloquent

than many words: he suspected her.

Palmer saw that pallor, and could not understand its real cause. He saw

also that Thérèse had been weeping, and Laurent's discomposed

countenance put the finishing-touch to his agitation. The first glance

that the two men exchanged was a glance of hatred and defiance; then

they walked toward each other, uncertain whether they should shake

hands, or grasp each other by the throat.

At that moment, Laurent was the better and more sincere of the two, for

he had spontaneous impulses which redeemed all his faults. He opened his

arms, and embraced Palmer effusively, making no effort to conceal his

tears, which were beginning to suffocate him.

"What is all this?" said Palmer, glancing at Thérèse.

"I do not know," she replied, firmly; "I have just told him that we are

going to America to be married. It causes him some grief. He apparently

thinks that we are going to forget him. Tell him, Palmer, we shall

always love him, at a distance as well as near at hand."

"He is a spoiled child!" rejoined Palmer. "He must know that I have but

one word, and that I desire your happiness before everything. Must we

take him to America, to make him cease grieving and causing you to weep,

Thérèse?"

These words were uttered in a tone impossible to describe. It was a tone

of paternal affection, blended with an indefinable flavor of profound

and unconquerable bitterness.

Thérèse understood. She asked for her hat and shawl, saying to Palmer:

"We will go to dine at a restaurant. Catherine expected nobody but me,

and there is not enough dinner in the house for us both."

"You mean for us three," rejoined Palmer, still half-bitter and

half-loving.

"But I cannot dine with you," said Laurent, understanding at last what

was going on in Palmer's mind. "I must leave you; I will come again to

say adieu. What day do you start?"

"In four days," said Thérèse.

"At least!" added Palmer, looking at her with a strange expression; "but

that is no reason why we three should not dine together to-day. Do me

this favor, Laurent. We will go to the _Frères Provençaux_, and after

that we will take a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. That will remind us

of Florence and the _Cascines_. Come, I beg you."

"I am engaged," said Laurent.

"Oh! well, break your engagement," said Palmer. "Here are paper and

pens! Write, write, I beg you!"

Palmer spoke in such a decided tone that there was no denying him.

Laurent remembered vaguely that it was his old-time peremptory tone.

Thérèse wanted him to refuse, and she could have made him understand

it with a glance; but Palmer did not take his eyes from her face, and he

seemed in a mood to interpret everything in an unfavorable light.

Laurent was very sincere. When he lied, he was the first person

deceived. He deemed himself strong enough to face that delicate

situation, and it was his straightforward, generous purpose to restore

Palmer's former confidence. Unluckily, when the human mind, borne onward

by vigorous aspirations, has climbed certain lofty summits, if it is

attacked with vertigo, it does not descend gradually, but plunges

recklessly down. That is what happened to Palmer. Although the most

noble-hearted and loyal of men, he had aspired to control the emotions

aroused by a too delicate situation. His strength had betrayed him; who

could blame him for it? And he plunged into the abyss, dragging

Thérèse and Laurent himself with him. Who would not pity them--all

three? All three had dreamed of scaling heaven and of reaching those

serene regions where passions have naught of earthliness; but it is not

given to man to reach that height; it is much for him to deem himself

for an instant capable of loving without doubt or distrust.

The dinner was mortally dismal; although Palmer, who had assumed the

rôle of host, made it a point to set before his guests the daintiest

dishes and choicest wines, everything had a bitter taste to them, and

Laurent, after vain efforts to recover the frame of mind which he had

found so delightful during his relations with those two at Florence

immediately after his illness, refused to accompany them to the Bois de

Boulogne. Palmer, who had drunk a trifle more than usual in order to

forget himself, insisted in a way that annoyed Thérèse.

"Come, come," she said, "don't be so persistent. Laurent is right to

refuse; in the Bois de Boulogne, in your open carriage, we shall be very

conspicuous, and we may meet people whom we know. We can't expect them

to know what an exceptional position we three occupy with respect to

each other; and they may well draw some very unpleasant conclusions

regarding all of us."

"Very well, then let us return to your house," said Palmer; "then I will

go and take a walk alone; I need a bit of fresh air."

Laurent made his escape when he saw that Palmer had determined to leave

him alone with Thérèse, apparently for the purpose of watching them or

surprising them. He returned to his own quarters very much depressed,

saying to himself that perhaps Thérèse was not happy, and

involuntarily deriving some satisfaction from the thought that Palmer

was not superior to the weakness of human nature, as he had imagined,

and as Thérèse had represented him in her letters.

We will pass rapidly over the ensuing week, a week during which the

heroic romance of which the three ill-fated friends had dreamed more or

less vividly, faded from hour to hour. Thérèse clung to her illusions

more persistently than the others, because, after such far-seeing

apprehensions and precautions, she had determined that she would risk

her whole life, and that however unjust Palmer might be, she ought to,

and would, keep her word to him.

Palmer released her from it at one stroke, after a succession of

suspicions more aggravating, because they were unexpressed in words,

than all Laurent's insults had been.

One morning, after passing the night concealed in Thérèse's garden,

Palmer was about to retire when she appeared near the gate and detained

him.

"Well," she said, "you have been watching here six hours; I saw you from

my room. Are you convinced that no one came to see me last night?"

Thérèse was angry, and yet, by forcing the explanation Palmer wished

to avoid, she hoped to lead him back to confidence in her; but he

thought otherwise.

"I see, Thérèse," he said, "that you are tired of me, since you demand

a confession after which I should be contemptible in your eyes. And yet

it would not have cost you much to close them to a weakness with which

I have not annoyed you overmuch. Why do you not let me suffer in

silence? Have I insulted you and pursued you with bitter sarcasms? Have

I written you volumes of insults, only to come the next day and weep at

your feet and make frantic protestations of repentance, reserving the

right to begin anew to torture you the next day? Did I ever so much as

ask you an indiscreet question? Why could you not sleep quietly last

night while I sat on yonder bench, not disturbing your repose by shrieks

and tears? Can you not forgive a suffering for which I blush, perhaps,

and which, at all events, I have the pride to wish to conceal and know

how to? You have forgiven much more in the case of one who had not so

much courage."

"I have forgiven him nothing, Palmer, for I have parted from him

irrevocably. As for this suffering which you avow, and which you think

that you conceal so perfectly, let me tell you that it is as clear as

daylight to my eyes, and that I suffer more from it than you do

yourself. Understand that it humiliates me profoundly, and that, coming

from a strong and thoughtful man like you, it wounds me a hundred times

more deeply than the insults of an excited child."

"Yes, yes, of course," rejoined Palmer. "So you are wounded by my fault,

and angry with me forever! Well, Thérèse, everything is at an end

between us. Do for me what you have done for Laurent: continue to be my

friend."

"So you mean to leave me?"

"Yes, Thérèse; but I do not forget that, when you deigned to give me

your word, I placed my name, my fortune, and my worldly station at your

feet. I have but one word, and I will keep my promise to you; let us be

married here, quietly and joylessly, accept my name and half of my

income, and then----"

"And then?" echoed Thérèse.

"Then I will go home, I will go to embrace my mother, and you will be

free!"

"Is this a threat of suicide?"

"No, on my honor! Suicide is rank cowardice, especially when one has a

mother like mine. I will travel, I will start around the world again,

and you will hear no more of me!"

Thérèse was shocked by such a proposition.

"This would seem to me a wretched joke, Palmer," she said, "if I did not

know you to be a serious man. I prefer to believe that you do not deem

me capable of accepting this name and this money which you offer me as

the solution of a case of conscience. Never recur to such a suggestion;

I should feel insulted."

"Thérèse! Thérèse!" cried Palmer, violently, squeezing her arm until

he bruised the skin, "swear to me, by the memory of the child you lost,

that you no longer love Laurent; I will kneel at your feet and implore

you to forgive my injustice."

Thérèse withdrew her wounded arm, and gazed at him in silence. She was

outraged to the very bottom of her soul that he should exact such an

oath from her, and his words seemed to her even more cruel and brutal

than the physical pain she had undergone.

"My child," she cried, stifling her sobs, "I swear to you, to you who

are in heaven, that no man shall ever debase your poor mother again!"

She rose, went to her room, and locked herself in. She felt so entirely

innocent with respect to Palmer, that she could not endure the idea of

descending to self-justification like a guilty woman. Moreover, she

anticipated a horrible future with a man who could brood so long over a

deep-rooted jealousy, and who, after he had twice provoked what he

thought to be a serious danger for her, attributed his own imprudence to

her as a crime. She thought of her mother's ghastly life with a husband

who was jealous of the past, and she said to herself, justly enough,

that, after she had had the misfortune to be subjected to a passion like

Laurent's, she had been insane to believe in the possibility of

happiness with another man.

Palmer had a reserve store of good sense and pride which did not allow

him to hope to make Thérèse happy after such a scene as had just

occurred. He felt that his jealousy would never be cured, and he

persisted in believing that it was well-founded. He wrote to Thérèse:

"Forgive me, my friend, if I have pained you; but it is impossible for

me not to realize that I was about to drag you down into an abyss of

despair. You love Laurent, you have always loved him in spite of

yourself, and in all probability you will always love him. It is your

destiny. I tried to relieve you from it; you tried with me. I also

realize that in accepting my love you were sincere, and that you did

your utmost to respond to it. I indulged in many illusions, but I have

felt them slipping from me every day since we left Florence. If he had

persisted in being ungrateful, I should have been saved; but his

repentance and gratitude touched your heart. I myself was touched by

them, and yet I strove to believe that I was perfectly calm. It was of

no avail. Thenceforth there were between you, because of me, sorrows of

which you never told me, but which I divined. He recurred to his former

love for you, and you, although you fought against the feeling,

regretted that you belonged to me. Alas! Thérèse, that was the time

when you should have retracted your promise. I was ready to give it back

to you. I left you at liberty to go with him from Spezzia: why did you

not do it?

"Forgive me; I rebuke you for having suffered terribly to make me happy

and to become attached to me. I have fought hard, too, I promise you!

And now, if you care to accept my devotion, I am ready to struggle and

suffer anew. Tell me if you are yourself willing to suffer, and if, by

going with me to America, you hope to be cured of this wretched passion

which threatens you with a pitiable future. I am ready to take you with

me; but let us say no more of Laurent, I implore you, and do not look

upon it as a crime on my part to have guessed the truth. Let us remain

friends, come and live with my mother, and if, a few years hence, you

find me not unworthy of you, accept my name and a permanent home in

America, with no thought of ever returning to France.

"I will wait in Paris a week for your reply.

"RICHARD."

Thérèse rejected an offer which wounded her pride. She still loved

Palmer, and yet she felt so insulted by the offer to take her as a favor

when she had no reason to reproach herself, that she concealed the pain

that tore her heart. She felt, too, that she could not resume any sort

of connection with him without prolonging a torture which he no longer

had the strength to dissemble, and that their life thenceforth would be

a constant struggle or constant misery. She left Paris with Catherine,

telling no one where she was going, and hid herself in a small

country-house in the provinces, which she hired for three months.

XII

Palmer sailed for America, bearing with dignity a very deep wound, but

utterly unable to admit that he had been mistaken. He had an obstinate

streak in his mind, which sometimes reacted upon his disposition, but

only to make him do this or that thing with resolution, not to make him

persist in a painful and really difficult undertaking. He had believed

that he was capable of curing Thérèse of her fatal love, and he had

performed that miracle by his enthusiastic and, if you please, imprudent

faith; but he lost the fruit just as he was on the point of plucking it,

because, when the last test came, his faith failed him.

It should be said also, that, in establishing a genuine, serious

connection between two persons, nothing can be more unfortunate than an

attempt to take possession too quickly of a heart that has been broken.

The dawn of such a connection is attended by the noblest illusions; but

jealousy of the past is an incurable disease, and stirs up storms which

even old age does not always dispel.

If Palmer had been a really strong man, or if his strength had been

calmer and less unreasoning, he might have saved Thérèse from the

disasters that he foresaw for her. It was his duty to do it, perhaps,

for she had confided herself to him with a sincerity and

disinterestedness worthy of solicitude and respect; but many who aspire

to strength of character and believe that they possess it possess

nothing more than energy, and Palmer was one of those as to whom one may

be mistaken for a long while. Such as he was, he surely deserved

Thérèse's regrets. We shall see ere long that he was capable of the

noblest impulses and the bravest deeds. His whole mistake consisted in

believing in the unassailable duration of that which in him was simply a

spontaneous effort of the will.

Laurent knew nothing at first of Palmer's departure for America; he was

dismayed to find that Thérèse, too, had gone away without bidding him

adieu. He had received from her only these few words:

"You are the only person in France who knew of my projected marriage to

Palmer. The marriage is broken off. Keep our secret. I am going away."

As she wrote these ice-cold words to Laurent, Thérèse was conscious of

a bitter feeling toward him. Was not that fatal child the cause of all

the misfortunes and all the sorrows of her life?

She soon felt, however, that this time her irritation was unjust.

Laurent had behaved admirably toward both Palmer and herself during that

wretched week which had ruined everything. After the first outburst, he

had accepted the situation with perfect good faith, and had done his

utmost not to give offence to Palmer. He had not once sought to take

advantage with Thérèse of her fiancé's unjust suspicions. He had

never failed to speak of him with respect and affection. By a strange

concatenation of circumstances, it was he who had the dignified rôle

during that week. And Thérèse could not help realizing that, although

Laurent was sometimes insane to the point of downright atrocity, his

mind was never open to any base or despicable thought.

During the three months which followed Palmer's departure, Laurent

continued to show that he was worthy of Thérèse's friendship. He had

succeeded in discovering her retreat, and he did nothing to disturb her

tranquillity. He wrote to her, complaining mildly of the coldness of her

adieu, and reproaching her for not having confidence in him in her

sorrows, for not treating him like a brother; "was he not created and

brought into the world to serve her, to console her, to avenge her at

need?" Then followed questions to which Thérèse was forced to reply.

Had Palmer insulted her? Should he go to him and demand satisfaction?

Did I do anything imprudent, which wounded you? Have you any reproach to

bring against me? God knows, I did not think it! If I am the cause of

your suffering, scold me, and if I am not the cause of it, tell me that

you will allow me to weep with you.

Thérèse justified Richard without entering into any explanations. She

forbade Laurent to mention his name to her. In her generous

determination to leave no stain on her fiancé's memory, she allowed him

to believe that she alone was responsible for the rupture. Perhaps the

result was to revive in Laurent's heart hopes which she had no purpose

of reviving; but there are situations in which one bungles, whatever one

may do, and rushes onward, impelled by fatality, to one's destruction.

Laurent's letters were infinitely gentle and affectionate. He wrote

without art, without pretension in the way of style, and often in bad

taste and incorrectly. He was sometimes honestly emphatic, and sometimes

childish without prudery. With all their defects, his letters were

dictated by a depth of conviction which made them irresistibly

persuasive, and one could feel in every word the fire of youth and the

effervescent energy of an artist of genius.

Moreover, Laurent began to work with great ardor, thoroughly resolved

never to return to his former dissolute habits. His heart bled at the

thought of the privations Thérèse had imposed upon herself in order to

provide him with the variety, the bracing air, and the renewed health of

the journey to Switzerland. He had determined to pay his debt at the

earliest possible moment.

Thérèse soon began to feel that the affection of her _poor child_, as

he still called himself, was very pleasant to her, and that, if it could

continue as it was, it would be the best and purest sentiment of his

life.

She encouraged him by motherly replies to persevere in the path of toil

to which he said that he had returned forever. Her letters were sweet,

resigned, and breathed a chaste affection; but Laurent soon detected a

strain of mortal sadness in them. Thérèse admitted that she was

slightly ill, and she sometimes had thoughts of death at which she

laughed with heart-rending melancholy. She was really ill. Without love

and without work, _ennui_ was consuming her. She had carried with her a

small sum of money, which was all that remained of what she had earned

at Genoa, and she used it with the strictest economy, in order to remain

in the country as long as possible. She had conceived a horror of Paris.

And then it is possible that there had gradually stolen over her a

longing and at the same time a sort of dread to see Laurent once more,

changed, resigned, and improved in every way, as his letters showed him

to be.

She hoped that he would marry; as he had once had an inclination in that

direction, that excellent plan might occur to him again. She encouraged

him to do it. He said sometimes _yes_ and sometimes _no_. Thérèse

constantly anticipated that some trace of the old love would appear in

Laurent's letters: it did crop out a little now and then, but always

with exquisite delicacy; and the prevailing characteristic of these

veiled references to ill-disguised sentiment was a delightful

tenderness, an effusive sensibility, a sort of ardent filial devotion.

When the winter arrived, Thérèse, finding that she had come to the end

of her resources, was obliged to return to Paris, where her patrons were

and her duties to herself. She concealed her return from Laurent,

preferring not to see him again too soon; but, impelled by some

mysterious power of divination, he passed through the unfrequented

street on which the little house stood. He saw that the shutters were

down, and he went in, drunk with joy. It was an ingenuous, almost

child-like joy, which would have made a suspicious, reserved attitude

utterly ridiculous and prudish. He left Thérèse to dine alone, begging

her to come in the evening to his studio, to see a picture which he had

just finished and upon which he was absolutely determined to have her

opinion before sending it away. It was sold and paid for; but, if she

had any criticism to make upon it, he would work at it a few days more.

The deplorable days had passed when Thérèse "was no connoisseur, when

she had the narrow, realistic judgment peculiar to portrait-painters,

when she was incapable of comprehending a work of the imagination," etc.

Now she was "his muse and his inspiration. Without the aid of her divine

breath, he could do nothing. With her advice and encouragement, his

talent would fulfil all its promises."

Thérèse forgot the past, and, while she was not too much bewildered by

the present, she did not think that she ought to refuse what an artist

never refuses a fellow-artist. After dinner, she took a cab and went to

Laurent's studio.

She found the studio illuminated, and the picture in a magnificent

light. It was a most excellent and beautiful picture. That peculiar

genius had the faculty of making, while in repose, more rapid progress

than is always attained by those who work most persistently. As a result

of his travelling and his illness, there had been a gap of a year in his

work, and it seemed that, by reflection simply, he had thrown off the

defects of his earlier exuberance of fancy. At the same time, he had

acquired new qualities which one would hardly have deemed consistent

with his nature--accuracy of drawing, more agreeable choice of subjects,

charm of execution--everything that was likely to please the public

without lowering him in the estimation of artists.

Thérèse was touched and enchanted. She expressed her admiration in the

warmest terms. She said to him everything that she deemed best adapted

to make the noble pride of talent vanquish all the wretched enthusiasms

of the past. She found nothing to criticise, and even forbade him to

retouch any part of it.

Laurent, albeit modest in manners and language, had more pride than

Thérèse gave him credit for. In the depth of his heart he was

enraptured by her praise. He had a feeling that she was the shrewdest

and most conscientious of all those who were capable of appreciating

him. He felt, too, a violent recrudescence of the old longing for her to

share his artistic joys and sorrows, and that hope of becoming a master,

that is to say, a man, which she only could revive in his moments of

weakness.

When Thérèse had gazed a long while at the picture, she turned to look

at a figure as to which Laurent desired her opinion, saying that she

would be even more pleased with it; but, instead of a canvas, Thérèse

saw her mother, with smiling face, standing in the doorway of Laurent's

chamber.

Madame C---- had come to Paris, not knowing just what day Thérèse

would return. This visit was occasioned by serious business: her son was

to be married, and Monsieur C---- himself had been in Paris for some

time. Thérèse's mother having learned from her that she had renewed

her correspondence with Laurent, and dreading the future, had called

upon him unexpectedly to say to him all that a mother can say to a man,

to prevent his making her daughter unhappy.

Laurent was gifted with eloquence of the heart. He had reassured this

poor mother, and had detained her, saying:

"Thérèse is coming here, and I propose to swear to her at your feet

that I will always be to her whichever she may choose, her brother or

her husband, but in any event her slave."

It was a very pleasant surprise for Thérèse to find her mother there,

for she did not expect to see her so soon. They embraced with tears of

joy. Laurent led them to a small salon filled with flowers, where tea

was served in sumptuous fashion. Laurent was rich, he had just earned

ten thousand francs. He was proud and happy to be able to repay

Thérèse all that she had expended for him. He was adorable that

evening; he won the daughter's heart and the mother's confidence, and

yet he had the delicacy not to say a word of love to Thérèse. Far from

that, as he kissed the clasped hands of the two women, he exclaimed with

absolute sincerity that that was the loveliest day of his life, and that

never had he felt so happy and so self-contented when he and Thérèse

were alone.

Madame C---- first broached the subject of marriage to Thérèse some

days later. That poor woman, who had sacrificed everything to external

appearances, who, despite her domestic sorrows, believed that she had

done well, could not endure the idea of her daughter being cast off by

Palmer, and she thought that Thérèse might set herself right in the

eyes of the world by making another choice. Laurent was famous and much

in vogue. Never could there be a better assorted marriage. The young but

great artist had reformed. Thérèse possessed an influence over him

which had dominated the most violent crisis of his painful

transformation. He had an unconquerable attachment for her. It had

become a duty on the part of both of them to weld anew and forever a

chain which had never been completely severed, and which could never be,

strive as hard as they might.

Laurent excused his past offences by very specious reasoning. Thérèse,

he said, had spoiled him at the outset by too great gentleness and

resignation. If, at the time of his first ingratitude, she had shown

that she was offended, she would have corrected his wretched habit,

contracted with low women, of yielding to his impulses and his caprices.

She would have taught him the respect a man owes to the woman who has

given herself to him through love.

Another consideration, too, which Laurent made the most of in his

defence, and which seemed more weighty, was this, which he had already

suggested in his letters.

"Probably," he said to her, "I was ill, although I did not know it, when

I wronged you the first time. A brain-fever seems to strike you like the

lightning, and yet it is impossible to believe that in a young, strong

man there has not taken place, perhaps long beforehand, a terrible

revolution by which his reason has already been disturbed, and under

which his will has been unable to react. Is not that just what took

place in me, my poor Thérèse, when that sickness was coming on which

nearly killed me? Neither you nor I could understand it; and, as for

myself, it often happened that I woke in the morning and thought of your

grief of the preceding day, unable to distinguish between the dreams I

had just dreamed and the reality. You know that I could not work, that

the place where we were aroused an unhealthy aversion in my mind, that I

had had an extraordinary hallucination in the forest of ----; and that,

when you gently reproached me for certain cruel words and certain unjust

accusations, I listened to you with a dazed air, thinking that you were

the one who had dreamed it all. Poor woman! I accused you of being mad!

You must see that _I_ was mad, and can you not forgive involuntary

offences? Compare my conduct after my illness with what it was before!

Was it not like a reawakening of my heart? Did you not suddenly find me

as trustful, as submissive, as devoted, as I had been cynical,

irritable, and selfish, before that crisis which restored me to my

senses? And have you had any reason to reproach me from that moment? Did

I not bow to your marriage to Palmer as a punishment I had earned? You

saw me almost dead with grief at the thought that I was going to lose

you forever: did I say a word against your fiancé? If you had bade me

run after him, and even to blow out my own brains in order to bring him

back to you, I would have done it, so absolutely do my heart and my life

belong to you! Do you want me to do it now? If my existence embarrasses

you or makes you unhappy, say but a word, I am ready to put an end to

it. Say a word, Thérèse, and you will never again hear the name of

this wretched creature, who has no other desire than to live or die for

you."

Thérèse's character had grown weaker in this twofold love, which, in

fact, had been simply two acts of the same drama; except for that

outraged, shattered passion, Palmer would never have thought of marrying

her, and the effort that she had made to pledge herself to him was,

perhaps, nothing more than the reaction of despair. Laurent had never

disappeared from her life, since Palmer's constant argument, in seeking

to convince her, had been to refer to the deplorable results of that

liaison which he wished to make her forget and which he seemed fatally

impelled to recall to her mind over and over again.

And then the renewal of friendship after the rupture had been, so far as

Laurent was concerned, a genuine renewal of passion; whereas, to

Thérèse, it had been a new phase of devotion, more refined and more

touching than love itself. She had suffered from Palmer's desertion, but

not in a cowardly way. She still had strength to meet injustice; indeed,

we may say that was her whole strength. She was not one of those women

who are everlastingly suffering and complaining, overflowing with

useless regrets and insatiable longings. A violent reaction was taking

place in her, and her intelligence, which was abundantly developed,

naturally helped it on. She conceived an exalted idea of moral liberty,

and when another's love and faith failed her, she had the righteous

pride not to dispute the tattered compact, shred by shred. She even took

pleasure in the idea of restoring freedom and repose, generously and

without reproach, to whoever reclaimed them.

But she had become much weaker than in her earlier womanhood, in the

sense that she had recovered the craving to love and to have faith,

which had been long benumbed by a disaster of exceptional severity. She

had fancied for a long time that she could live thus, and that art would

be her only passion. She had made a mistake, and she could no longer

indulge in any illusions concerning the future. It was necessary for her

to love, and her greatest misfortune was that it was necessary for her

to love gently and self-sacrificingly, and to satisfy at any price the

maternal impulse which was, as it were, a fatal element of her nature

and her life. She had become accustomed to suffering for some one, she

longed to suffer still, and if that longing, strange, it is true, but

well characterized in certain women, and in certain men as well, had

made her less merciful to Palmer than to Laurent, it was because Palmer

had seemed to her too strong himself to need her devotion. So that

Palmer had erred in offering her support and consolation. Thérèse had

missed the feeling that she was necessary to that man, who wished her to

think of no one but herself.

Laurent, who was more ingenuous, had that peculiar charm of which she

was fatally enamored--weakness! He made no secret of it, he proclaimed

that touching infirmity of his genius with transports of sincerity and

inexhaustible emotion. Alas! he, too, erred. He was not really weak, any

more than Palmer was really strong. He had his hours, he always talked

like a child of heaven, and as soon as his weakness had won the day, he

recovered his strength to make others suffer, as is the wont of all the

children whom we adore.

Laurent was in the clutches of an inexorable fatality. He said so

himself in his lucid moments. It seemed as if, born of the intercourse

of two angels, he had nursed at the breast of a Fury, and had retained

in his blood a leaven of frenzy and despair. He was one of those

persons, more plentiful than is generally supposed in the human race, in

both sexes, who, although endowed with all sublimity of thought and all

the noble impulses of the heart, never attain the full extent of their

faculties without falling at once into a sort of intellectual epilepsy.

And then, too, he was, like Palmer, inclined to undertake the

impossible, which is to try to graft happiness upon despair, and to

taste the divine joys of conjugal faith and of sacred friendship upon

the ruins of a newly devastated past. Those two hearts, bleeding from

the wounds they had received, were sadly in need of repose: Thérèse

implored it with the sorrow born of a ghastly presentiment; but Laurent

fancied that he had lived ten centuries during the ten months of their

separation, and he became ill with the exuberance of a desire of the

heart, which should have terrified Thérèse more than a desire of the

senses.

Unfortunately, she allowed herself to be reassured by the nature of that

desire. Laurent seemed to be so far regenerated as to have restored

moral love to the place it should occupy in the front rank, and he was

once more alone with Thérèse, but did not worry her as before by his

outbreaks of frenzy. He was able to talk with her for hours at a time

with the most sublime affection--he who had long believed that he was

dumb, he said, and who at last felt his genius spreading its wings and

taking its flight to a loftier realm! He made himself a part of

Thérèse's future by constantly pointing out to her that she had a

sacred duty to perform toward him, the duty of sheltering him from the

mad impulses of youth, from the unworthy ambitions of middle life, and

the depraved selfishness of old age. He talked to her of himself, always

of himself. Why not? He talked so well! Through her means, he would be a

great artist, a great heart, a great man; she owed him that, because she

had saved his life! And Thérèse, with the fatal simplicity of loving

hearts, came at last to look upon this reasoning as irrefutable, and to

regard as a duty what she had at first been implored to grant as a proof

of forgiveness.

So Thérèse at last consented to weld anew that fatal chain; but she

was happily inspired to postpone the marriage, desiring to test

Laurent's resolution on that point, and fearing an irrevocable

engagement for his sake. If her own happiness alone had been involved,

the imprudent creature would have bound herself forever.

Thérèse's first happiness did not last _a whole week_, as a merry

ballad sadly says; the second did not last twenty-four hours. Laurent's

reactions were sudden and violent, in proportion to the intensity of his

enjoyment. We say his reactions, Thérèse said his _retractations_, and

that was the more accurate word. He obeyed that inexorable longing which

some young men feel to kill or destroy anything that arouses their

passions. These cruel instincts have been observed in men of widely

varying natures, and history has stigmatized them as perverse instincts;

it would be more just to describe them as instincts perverted either by

a disease of the brain contracted amid the surroundings in which the men

in question were born, or by the impunity, fatal to the reason, which

certain conditions assured them from their first steps in life. We have

heard of young kings murdering fawns to which they seemed to be much

attached, solely for the pleasure of seeing their entrails quiver. Men

of genius, too, are kings in the environment in which they mature;

indeed, they are absolute kings, who are intoxicated by their power.

There are some who are tormented by the thirst for domination, and whose

joy, when their domination is assured, excites them to frenzy.

Such was Laurent, in whom two entirely distinct natures struggled for

mastery. One would have said that two souls, having fought for the

privilege of vivifying his body, were engaged in a desperate conflict to

drive each other out. Between those contrary impulsions the poor wretch

lost his free will, and fell exhausted every day after the victory of

the angel or the demon who fought over his body.

And when he analyzed himself, it seemed to him sometimes that he was

reading in a book of magic, and could discern with marvellous and

appalling lucidity the key to the mysterious spells of which he was the

victim.

"Yes," he said to Thérèse, "I am undergoing the phenomenon which the

thaumaturgists called _possession_. Two spirits have acquired mastery

over me. Is one of them really a good and one an evil spirit? No, I do

not think so: the one who terrifies you, the sceptical, violent, frantic

one, does ill only because he is not able to do good as he understands

it. He would like to be calm, philosophical, playful, tolerant; _the

other_ does not choose that he shall be so. He wishes to play his part

of good angel; he seeks to be fervent, enthusiastic, single-hearted,

devoted; and as his adversary mocks at him, denies him, and insults him,

he becomes morose and cruel in his turn, so that the two angels together

bring forth a demon."

And Laurent said and wrote to Thérèse on this strange subject

sentences no less beautiful than appalling, which seemed to be true and

to add further privileges to the impunity he had apparently arrogated to

himself with respect to her.

All that Thérèse had feared that she would suffer on Laurent's account

if she became Palmer's wife, she suffered on Palmer's account when she

became for the second time Laurent's companion. Ghastly retrospective

jealousy, the worst of all forms of jealousy, because it takes offence

at everything and can be sure of nothing, gnawed the unhappy artist's

heart and sowed madness in his brain. The memory of Palmer became a

spectre, a vampire to him. He obstinately insisted that Thérèse should

tell him all the details of her life at Genoa and Porto Venere, and, as

she refused, he accused her of having tried to _deceive him_! Forgetting

that at that time Thérèse had written to him: _I love Palmer_, and

that a little later she had written to him: _I am going to marry him_,

he reproached her with having always held in a firm and treacherous hand

the chain of hope and desire which bound him to her. Thérèse placed

all their correspondence before him, and he admitted that she had said

to him all that loyalty called upon her to say to cut him loose from

her. He became calmer, and agreed that she had handled his half-extinct

passion with excessive delicacy, telling him the whole truth little by

little, as he showed a disposition to receive it without pain, and also

as she gained confidence in the future toward which Palmer was leading

her. He admitted that she had never told him anything resembling a

falsehood, even when she had refused to explain herself, and that

immediately after his illness, when he was still deluding himself with

the idea of a possible reconciliation, she had said to him: "All is at

an end between us. What I have determined upon and accepted for myself

is my secret, and you have no right to question me."

"Yes, yes; you are right!" cried Laurent. "I was unjust, and my fatal

curiosity is a torment which it is a veritable crime for me to seek to

make you share. Yes, dear Thérèse, I subject you to humiliating

questions, you who owed me nothing more than oblivion, and who

generously granted me a full pardon! I have changed rôles; I draw an

indictment against you, forgetting that I am the culprit and the

condemned! I try to tear away with an impious hand the veils of modesty

in which your heart is entitled, and doubtless in duty bound, to envelop

itself touching all that concerns your relations with Palmer. I thank

you for your proud silence. I esteem you all the more for it. It proves

to me that you never allowed Palmer to question you touching the

mysteries of our sorrows and our joys. And now I understand that not

only does a woman not owe these private confidences to her lover, but it

is her duty to refuse them. The man who asks for them degrades the woman

he loves. He calls upon her to do a dastardly thing, at the same time

that he debases her in his mind, by associating her image with those of

all the phantoms that beset him. Yes, Thérèse, you are right; one must

work on his own account to maintain the purity of his ideal; and I am

forever straining every nerve to profane it and cast it forth from the

temple I had built for it!"

It would seem that after such protestations, and when Laurent declared

his readiness to sign them with his blood and his tears, tranquillity

should have been restored and happiness have begun. But such was not the

case. Laurent, consumed by secret rage, returned the next day to his

questions, his insults, his sarcasms. Whole nights were passed in

deplorable disputes, in which it seemed that he had an absolute craving

to work upon his own genius with the lash, to wound it and torture it,

in order to make it fruitful in abusive language of truly appalling

eloquence, and to drive both Thérèse and himself to the uttermost

limits of despair. After these hurricanes, there seemed to be nothing

left for them to do but to kill themselves together. Thérèse

constantly expected it and was always ready, for life was horrible to

her; but Laurent had not as yet had that thought. Exhausted by fatigue

he would fall asleep, and his good angel seemed to return to watch over

his slumber and bring to his face the divine smile of celestial visions.

It was an incredible, but fixed and invariable, rule of that strange

character, that sleep changed all his resolutions. If he fell asleep

with his heart overflowing with affection, he was sure to wake with his

mind eager for battle and murder; and on the other hand, if he had gone

away cursing the night before, he would return in the morning to bless.

Three times Thérèse left him and fled from Paris; three times he went

after her and forced her to forgive his despair; for as soon as he had

lost her he adored her, and began anew to implore her with all the tears

of exalted repentance.

Thérèse was at once miserable and sublime in that hell into which she

had plunged the second time, closing her eyes and sacrificing her life.

She carried devotion to the point of acts of self-immolation which made

her friends shudder, and which sometimes brought upon her the blame,

almost the scorn, of certain proud and virtuous people who did not know

what it is to love.

Moreover, this love of Thérèse for Laurent was incomprehensible to

herself. She was not drawn on by her passions, for Laurent, besmirched

by the debauchery into which he plunged anew to kill a love which he

could not destroy by his will, had become a more disgusting object than

a dead body to her. She no longer had any caresses for him, and he no

longer dared ask her for them. She was no longer vanquished and swayed

by the charm of his eloquence and the child-like grace of his penitence.

She could no longer believe in the morrow; and the superb outbursts of

emotion, which had reconciled them so many times, were no longer

anything more in her eyes than alarming symptoms of storm and shipwreck.

What attached her to him was that all-embracing compassion which one

inevitably acquires as a habit toward those to whom one has forgiven

much. Pardon seems to engender pardon even to satiety, to foolish

weakness. When a mother has said to herself that her child is

incorrigible, and that he must either die or kill some one, there is

nothing left for her to do except to abandon him or to accept him as he

is. Thérèse had been mistaken every time that she had thought to cure

Laurent by abandoning him. It is very true that he seemed to improve at

such times, but only because he hoped to obtain his pardon. When he

ceased to hope, he plunged recklessly into dissipation and idleness.

Then she returned to rescue him, and succeeded in making him work for a

few days. But how dearly she had to pay for the little good she

succeeded in doing him! When he became disgusted once more with a

regular life, he could not find enough invectives with which to reproach

her for trying to make of him "what her patron saint Thérèse Levasseur

had made of Jean-Jacques," that is to say, according to him, "an idiot

and a maniac."

And yet there was in this pity, which he implored so fervently only to

insult it as soon as she had given it back to him, an enthusiastic,

perhaps a slightly fanatical respect for his genius as an artist. That

woman, whom he accused of being commonplace and lacking in intelligence,

when he saw her working for his well-being with simple-hearted

perseverance, was superbly artistic, in her love at least, since she

accepted Laurent's tyranny as a matter of divine right, and sacrificed

to him her own pride, her own labor, and what another less

self-sacrificing than she might have called her own glory.

And he, poor wretch, saw and understood that devotion, and when he

realized his ingratitude he was consumed by remorse which crushed him.

He should have had a heedless, robust mistress, who would have laughed

at his anger and his repentance alike, who would not have suffered

because of anything he did, so long as she controlled him. Thérèse was

not such a woman. She was dying of weariness and disappointment, and

Laurent, seeing her fade away, sought momentary forgetfulness of his own

tears in the suicide of his intelligence, in the poison of drunkenness.

XIII

One evening, he abused her so long and so incoherently that she ceased

to listen to him, and dozed in her chair. After a few moments, a slight

rustling made her open her eyes. Laurent convulsively threw on the floor

something that gleamed: it was a dagger. Thérèse smiled, and closed

her eyes again. She understood feebly, and as if through the haze of a

dream, that he had thought of killing her. At that moment, Thérèse was

utterly indifferent to everything. To rest from living and thinking, let

that rest be sleep or death--she left the choice to destiny.

Death was what she despised. Laurent thought that it was he, and, as he

despised himself, he left her at last.